the forest.
so vast, so many
to chase.

i hunt.
i am the hunted.

i leave a trail of breadcrumbs;
better to starve
than to lose myself
in the darkness swimming
in the ninth circle.

towering trees,
hangman’s noose,
try to navigate –
a breadcrumb here,
a breadcrumb there.

never walk into the corpses.
the dead always pass
with a curse on their black lips.

(if you look into the sockets
where the eyes have been e’t,
you can see the terror
of their final breaths.)

it is better to carry breadcrumbs
to follow from the shadows
than to lose myself
in the inferno.